


counterbalance

by Ias



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Teasing, Top!Bard, at least I'm predictable, yet another fic featuring political maneuvering by way of porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:26:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5510147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all his professions of friendship, Thranduil always worked towards his own ends. Bard respected that. He was doing the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	counterbalance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Savageseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/gifts).



Bard made his way through the winding caverns of the Woodland Realm with grim intent.

His arrival had been anticipated, met at the gate by a guard who offered to guide him to the visitor’s quarters to refresh himself from his journey. Bard politely turned him down. He had spent more time in the Elven kingdom than most of his race could claim to, and he knew its passages well. Furthermore, it was not the guest chambers which he sought on this day. He turned towards the royal wing, and walked quickly.

The letter from King Thranduil crinkled inside his pocket as he walked. It had arrived the day before, and Bard had left for Mirkwood shortly afterwards. Thranduil requested his presence to further discuss the terms of negotiation with Erebor in the wake of the battle—of course, the battle had been a spring and winter ago, and they were still squabbling over shares and treaties.

Bard’s jaw tightened at the memory. His last parting from Thranduil had not been entirely pleasant.

Negotiations between Dale, Erebor, and the Woodland Realm had begun to go sour some time ago; by now, they were practically fermented. The delay was in no small part thanks to Thranduil’s stubborn pride. He would accept nothing less than to have every coin in the Dwarven treasury split in two, so that he might have half the share and sully the rest. He raised arguments at every step of the way, demanding Dain make more allowances, or add more time to the discussions. For all his concerns for Dale’s wellbeing before the battle, Thranduil was now only casually invested in their interests. He assured Bard in their private talks that he was looking out for Dale’s interests by looking out for his own.

Thranduil seemed fond of the idea that Dale might remain at the mercy of his generosity. There was a good reason for this. Bard knew that if Dale returned to even half its former strength that the Greenwood would face a serious political and economic competitor. With Erebor reinstated and rising to power once more, Mirkwood’s reign as the strongest political and economic power in the North would soon be at an end. The Elvenking knew this well; he could remember when it had been so in the past. If Dale and Erebor were to forge too close a bond, The Woodland Realm’s trade and influence would suffer for it.

As a result, Thranduil seemed dead-set on undermining Bard’s political relationship with Erebor at every possible turn. For all his professions of friendship, Thranduil worked towards his own ends. Bard respected that. He had his own. And in the end, friendship was not all that Bard wanted from the Elvenking.    

The doors to the royal wing of the Woodland Realm were shut to him for only as long as it took the guards to recognize his face. They wordlessly stepped aside and pushed the doors open, allowing Bard to pass deeper into the subterranean caverns. Thranduil’s kingdoms were a rabbit-warren of side passageways and hidden alcoves, and the royal apartments were no different. He heard the doors boom shut behind him as he walked on. His pace was slower now, less urgent and more wary.

Here Thranduil’s power was the strongest—Bard could feel it from the moment he stepped inside, a feeling like heat without the comfort of warmth, the smell of rain on the way. At once on an intuition Bard came to a stop. The hallway before him remained empty. There was no sound of footsteps from behind. And yet…

Just as he began to turn he felt himself seized in an iron grip, yanked into a darker side passage and slammed against the wall. The air would have fled his lungs in a cry of surprise, were it not for the lips that sealed over his, kissing him with such force that his head had no time to stop spinning. Bard gave as much as he received, hands tangling into pale hair, teeth scraping over smirking lips.

After a moment Thranduil pulled back, his mouth already flushed with color from Bard’s attentions. Bard stared at him, wary for all he enjoyed the sight of his mark on Thranduil’s flesh. It had always been such, even from their first hungry joining so many years ago when Bard had been little more than a man to fetch and deliver the wine barrels. Bard had trusted his intentions even less then than he did now, and felt it served him well. It was only later that Bard realized Thranduil had known his descent from Girion all along—that perhaps he’d had more defined motives than simply taking him to bed. If he wished to earn Bard’s allegiance, he had certainly succeeded on that front.

Thranduil leaned forward to drag his lips up Bard’s throat, pulling his head back from a sturdy grip on the man’s wavy hair. “You’re far from the guest’s quarters,” he whispered, teeth scraping against Bard’s neck. “Are you lost?”

“I believe I found what I’m looking for,” Bard said, his words coming out strained from the position Thranduil held his head in.

“I did not expect you here with such haste,” Thranduil said. “It is your custom to make me wait.”

“And yet we have urgent matters of state to discuss,” Bard replied. “And I will not be so distracted by your tongue, no matter how talented it is.”

“If you wished for my tongue to do nothing more than wag over paltry sums you could have had your fill at the meeting two days from now,” he whispered, rolling his hips against Bard’s with single-minded intensity.

“It is the meeting which I have come to discuss,” Bard hissed. “You have made things exceedingly difficult for my people. When we meet with Dain two days from now, you will cease your delays and use that talented tongue of yours to forge a bargain which benefits us all, or I will be forced to withdraw my support of your claims.”

At once, Thranduil’s ministrations ceased. His hold on Bard’s hair did not relax as he slowly pulled back to look the man in the eye. “Are you threatening me, Bard?” he murmured, the silk in his voice disguising the dagger beneath.

“No threats,” Bard said, staring at him frankly. “Merely a warning of what is to come.”

A slow smile spread over Thranduil’s lips. “You wish for me to win back your support,” Thranduil murmured. “What might you have in mind, I wonder?”

At once he stepped back, smoothing the rumples out of his hair and clothing until he looked as if he had done nothing more strenuous than encounter a light breeze. “Wash the grime of travel from your skin, and meet me in my chambers,” Thranduil said. “I do not plan to wait for long.” Bard’s frown deepened at the peremptory tone in Thranduil’s voice, but the Elf was already turning to leave. If it were not for the hum that sang beneath his skin and the persistent weight between his legs, he would have turned for the gates and left the Elvenking to fester on his own. Yet it seemed Thranduil had more of a hold over him than he was willing to admit.

His fists clenched at his side. He had come here with a purpose, and he was set on fulfilling it. He would turn the Elf’s devices back on him, and see how he enjoyed begging for a change.

 

 

Bard bathed thoroughly and efficiently, donning the clean robes that Thranduil’s attendants had left out for him before making his way through the private halls of Thranduil’s vast apartments. His hair lay damp on the soft collar of the Elven-made garment. He found Thranduil’s private chambers quickly. He knew his way by now.

Inside, the stone floors were covered with carpets, the walls bare but for the intricate designs carved into them. On one wall, a fire burned in the fireplace and leant a close, warm atmosphere to the room. The bedframe seemed to have been carved from stone as well, its elegant shapes descending from the ceiling to cradle the comfortable bedding within. The pillows were very soft indeed. Bard should know, for all the times he’d had his face shoved into them.

For now, the room was empty. Bard settled into one of the chairs by the fire and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter sitting out on the table. He could feel the same presence of power that always settled around him in Mirkwood; the sense of the shadows being heavier, the air moving in strange ways. He could feel the forest eddying around him even through the walls of rock that protected him. Perhaps ‘protected’ was the wrong word. He was hemmed in at the mercy of his host, and the will he felt around him was not entirely friendly. Such was the nature of Elves. Fey, mysterious, and all the more dangerous for it.

He did not look up at the sound of the door opening, nor of the distinctive sound of the locks sliding into place afterwards. They did send a pleasant shiver down his spine, one he fought to ignore. He knew what he was here to do. He would not let himself be distracted. Yet when the soft padding of Thranduil’s feet sounded on the carpeted floor behind him, and cool fingers reached from behind to push the fringe of his damp hair to the side, he could not admit to himself that his mind was entirely focused.

“Finally,” Thranduil breathed against his neck. “I had almost lost my patience.”

“And yet I arrived here sooner than you,” Bard replied.

“I was merely retrieving something of use.” Bard turned in his seat to look at Thranduil warily. The Elf was holding something behind his back with one hand that Bard could not see, yet his features were as placid and unreadable as ever. Once Bard had mistaken that look for calm. It was not a mistake he had made twice.

Thranduil saw his suspicion and chuckled, leaning in to drag a line of kisses from the lobe of Bard’s ear across his face, down from his lips to his jaw. “Nervous, my lord?” he said. “As one so new to leadership it is perfectly understandable for you to feel intimidated by one as experienced as I.”

“And yet only a fool would call your negotiation tactics wisdom,” Bard hissed, anger and lust rising already intertwined. With the back of the chair between them, it was impossible to act on either.

Thranduil’s mouth silenced his own with a slow, frustrating kiss. “It was never my intent to cause your respect to falter. Or your loyalty.”

Bard pulled back a fraction of an inch to stare into Thranduil’s eyes. “Loyalty?” he asked. “Or fealty?”

Thranduil chuckled. His free hand reached up to stroke down the back of Bard’s hair, a gesture laden with condescension and Thranduil knew it. “Whichever you prefer,” he murmured.

At that Bard surged to his feet, rounding his chair and crowding into Thranduil’s space. Thranduil still kept whatever was hidden behind his back out of sight. “I am not your vassal,” Bard said, hands settling on Thranduil’s hips with a bruising grip. “Nor am I your swain. If you wish for my respect, my _loyalty_ , you must earn it both in our bed and out.”

“We never have limited ourselves to the bed before,” Thranduil murmured, his insolence a tool used to stoke Bard higher. It was working. He pushed Thranduil backwards until the Elf’s back hit the graceful stone post of his bed with a thud. The jolt that went through both their bodies only made Bard press to him harder. Thranduil gave, his soft smile a challenge egging Bard on. He began wrenching free the clasps and buckles of Thranduil’s robes, as complicated as a suit of armor. Thranduil had worn such an intricate garment to frustrate him, he was sure of it. The Elf’s hands did not rise to Bard’s own clothing, even when Bard managed to free the final set of ties on Thranduil’s robe with a quick jerk, and strip the remaining layers of the garment onto the floor. Bard let his gaze travel over Thranduil’s body, the leanness of muscle under skin so bright it shone, except where it was already flushed. The Elf’s arousal was already prominent, but Bard made no move to relieve him.

“Will you kneel for me, Bargeman?” Thranduil whispered. They were familiar words, used once long ago when Thranduil’s power had been something strange and intoxicating, not an instrument at odds with his own. Bard had never been one to bend the knee, but he had fallen down before Thranduil in worship more eagerly than he wished to examine. There had been something heady about submitting to that authority. But now, submission was a luxury he could not afford.  

Bard let his thumb trace over the bare skin of Thranduil’s hip, and felt the Elf’s body push forward to chase it. “Only once you’ve shown me what you have behind your back,” Bard whispered, his other hand darting around to seize Thranduil’s wrist before the Elf could worm away. Thranduil watched him in amusement as Bard drew the hand forward and saw what was clasped within it: lengths of white, silken cloth that unwound before Bard’s eyes, as fluid as pouring milk. Bard reached up to touch them, his eyes on Thranduil’s.

“Was this how you planned to regain my support?” Bard murmured. “To bind me first to your bed, and then to your service?”

“I seem to recall such treatments making you exceedingly pliant in the past.”

Bard reached up to yank the bindings from Thranduil’s hand. “Not this time,” he hissed, dragging Thranduil to the edge of the bed and pushing him down on it. Thranduil’s back had no sooner hit the mattress than Bard was on him, tugging his hands up towards the headboard of carven stone. But Thranduil was quicker—he wrapped his legs around Bard’s waist as the Man was fumbling with the knots, and in an instant had tumbled them over until Bard was pinned beneath him. Bard growled in the back of his throat, bucking his hips both to dislodge the weight on top of him, and for the sake of the delicious friction it lent him through his clothes.

Thranduil laughed at his attempts, nimble fingers already making quick work of Bard’s much less complicated robes. He parted them over Bard’s chest and immediately dragged his nails over Bard’s nipples, making the man’s back arch in spite of himself. But he was not to be so easily beaten. Bard levered himself forward until he was sitting up with Thranduil still astride his hips, and sank his teeth into the place beneath Thranduil’s jaw that he knew would give him an advantage. The gasp that choked out of Thranduil’s throat was enough to put a smile on Bard’s face, even as he reached down to take Thranduil’s cock in his hand. Shivers moved through the Elf’s body as he stroked, his lips an teeth moving over Thranduil’s skin.

Two hands came up to rest in Bard’s hair, the grip gentle yet unbreakable. “I’m not sure which is sweetest,” Thranduil whispered. “When you fight, or when you yield to me.”

“Then you may have both, my lord,” Bard murmured against Thranduil’s ear, earning himself a sigh of pleasure. It was only when he was certain that Thranduil was thoroughly distracted that Bard looped the length of silk in his hand over the Elf’s delicate wrists.

He felt Thranduil tense in the split second before Bard rolled them over one last time. Thranduil landed beneath him once more, only this time Bard was ready—the cloth was around Thranduil’s wrists, and he bound it to the carved stone of the headboard before Thranduil could wriggle away. His arms were pulled up over his head, leaving his body open and unprotected.

“Well done,” Thranduil said breathlessly, tugging at his hands to test the knots. “Ever are you full of surprises, Bargeman.”

Bard pressed a finger to Thranduil’s lips. “You will show me more respect,” he murmured. His hands trailed up to touch the bindings around Thranduil’s wrists. “Remember I have the power here.”

Thranduil’s eyes gleamed with hunger. “Of course, my lord,” he said, an edge of irony in his voice. He settled back on the pillows to showcase the muscles pulled taut, the skin open to the touch. Even stripped and bound to his own bed Thranduil was in control, always aware of how to manipulate the situation to get what he wanted. No doubt he thought even now this night would end with Bard at his mercy, that he would lean in and coax promises of forgiveness and loyalty from Bard’s trembling lips. The thought made a slow smile spread over Bard’s face. Not this night. Tonight, Thranduil would be the one to beg.

Bard finished the last of the clasps on his robe before tossing the garment to the floor. Thranduil’s eyes ran over his nakedness as thoroughly as his hands might have wanted to, enough to make the breath catch in Bard’s throat. He leaned over to the bedside table with its familiar necessities, retrieving a small bottle. Thranduil watched him slick his fingers with an expression of indolent amusement. Bard watched it fall from his face the moment he thrust the first digit inside of him.

Thranduil yelped in surprise at the sudden intrusion, the sound chased by a tumble of laughter. “Will you be rough with me tonight, my lord?” he said, the tremor in his voice only barely audible.

“Only to wipe that smirk off your face,” Bard replied. The smirk in question returned quickly at that, Thranduil’s body already relaxing, but beneath his expression there was a hint of something else—a hunger for something Thranduil would not put into words. Bard took his time in the preparations, adding a second finger and a third, crooking them in such a way that he knew would have Thranduil gasping. The Elf was doing his best to lock down on the sounds and expressions that flitted over his face, to hide from Bard the effect he was having—it was no use. Bard had seen Thranduil undone time after time. He knew that the Elf was enjoying this as much as he was.

“Is this your plan?” Thranduil said between harsh breaths as Bard worked him open. “To fuck me into submission until—” His voice cut out in a sharp cry as Bard pressed harder into the sensitive place inside of him. Thranduil’s hips bucked uselessly into the air, his eyes squeezed shut as Bard pushed him closer and closer to the edge, but held him back all the way.

Bard leaned down to slowly lick a stripe up Thranduil’s chest, counting the ribs under his tongue until he took a nipple in his teeth. “Who says I plan to fuck you?” he said, his voice low and dangerous. Thranduil watched him, lips parted and eyes dark. “Maybe I’ll just keep you like this—panting, whining, writhing—and never give you anything more.” He crooked his fingers as she spoke and watched the way Thranduil’s eyes rolled up, even as the Elf clenched his teeth and struggled to keep his composure. Bard leaned up until their noses brushed together, and Thranduil’s rapidly fluttering eyelashes tickled at his own. “I wonder: will you beg?” Bard murmured against his lips. “Will you sob and plead for me to take you like an animal?”

“Perhaps you’d rather I just agreed to honor Erebor’s conditions in our negotiations,” Thranduil said. It was a miracle he managed to express such a sentiment at all, with his voice rough and his chest heaving, his hands clenched around the ties that bound them. But Thranduil was nothing if not prideful. Bard would cure him of that by the end of the night.

 

 

He kept him there for what felt like hours, teasing him with his fingers and mouth, dragging slow, agonizing strokes of his hand over Thranduil’s cock until he was trembling on the brink. And then he would stop, let Thranduil shudder with the frustration of his pent-up release, until Bard began to touch him again. He rarely had the chance to see Thranduil break a sweat, but now the Elf was drenched in it; his muscles trembled under every touch, his hair was plastered to his forehead in damp whorls, and his eyes were glazed.

“Enough,” he croaked as Bard ran his hands over his stomach. “Damn you, Bargeman. No more.”

Bard clasped Thranduil’s chin and forced the Elf’s gaze to meet his own. “But I can’t stop now,” he said. “Not when you insist on showing such disrespect.”

Thranduil let a breath hiss out from between his teeth as Bard let his fingers roam everywhere except where they were needed. “Please, my lord,” he said with effort. “I need you to—ah!”

“That’s better,” Bard said as he took Thranduil in hand. His strokes were slow, agonizing, and exhausted as he was Thranduil twisted and bucked up into them, chasing the relief that Bard held just out of his reach. Bard’s own arousal had been a constant distraction throughout the night, but he had ignored it up until now. The sight of seeing Thranduil so utterly undone was enough to make his own breaths come harsh and short. He had wanted to torment Thranduil for longer. But he could not wait.

“Tell me what you want, Thranduil,” Bard said roughly, pressing Thranduil’s legs further apart as he positioned himself between them. Thranduil looked at him with eyes that widened in comprehension and relief, though they quickly squeezed shut with another motion of Bard’s hand.

“Fuck me,” he said. “ _Please_.”

Bard quickly took the oil again, preparing himself with a hand that shook in anticipation. After denying himself for so long, even the feeling of his own skin against his cock was enough to send sparks of pleasure dancing behind his eyes. “And in exchange?” he said, pressing against Thranduil’s entrance but still holding himself back.

Thranduil groaned, struggling against the bounds of his hands to push himself further onto that pressure. “Very well,” he cried. “I will agree to your terms on the treaty, just _please_ , for Eru’s sake—”

Bard pushed into him in one long, slow stroke. Thranduil’s voice broke into a yell, his body contorting under Bard’s, the breath locked in his chest. Bard himself buried his face into Thranduil’s shoulder and struggled to even his breathing, his body begging him to move. Only when he felt Thranduil begin to relax by degrees, his breath shuddering in long controlled pulls, did Bard begin his rhythm. He moved with short, punishing strokes that turned Thranduil’s breathing into gasps. Pleasure exploded behind his eyes in splotches of red and black, threatening to drag him under even now. He would not last much longer. Neither would Thranduil. Yet Bard would hold on until he made his point.

At first Thranduil stayed still beneath him, and then he began to tremble—his hands yanked at the strips that bound them so hard that Bard thought the stone might shatter as the Elf began to babble in Sindarin. He leaned forward to press a kiss to Thranduil’s mouth, pressing his tongue with each thrust of his hips and swallowing the whimpers it drew out. Bard was so close, his blood burning and writhing like tongues of flame, stars gathering over his eyes—but he would not give in, not yet—just a little longer—

A sharp snap of ripping fabric was the only warning Bard had before his world was upturned, Thranduil’s powerful strength tearing through the bonds that held him as he surged forward once again. He flipped them over so that Bard was on his back, pinned under Thranduil’s weight. There was something mad and fey in Thranduil’s eyes, none of the smug satisfaction Bard might have expected; he slid himself down onto Bard’s cock with an almost feral growl, and began to work his hips in sharp, frantic ruts. On instinct Bard’s hand rose to Thranduil’s cock and began to stroke it in the same rhythm, earning a low whine from the back of the Elf’s throat as he lost himself in the sensation.

Thranduil’s back arched as Bard bucked up to push deeper into him, chasing the prickling currents running over his skin as Bard teetered on the edge. Thranduil looked down at Bard through his lashes, and though the Elf looked only half-aware of what he was doing Bard caught the flash of something devious. Bard dug the nails of his free hand into Thranduil’s hip, struggling to center himself, to make sure Thranduil came apart before him—but then, a smile split Thranduil’s face.

“By your leave, my lord,” he gasped. Bard groaned, feeling his release rush through him with the force of an avalanche, the sight of Thranduil riding him with such sweet words on his lips enough to undo him entirely. He was lost in a white rush of heat that coursed through him, his hand tightening instinctively on Thranduil’s cock—and then the Elf was spilling too, with a curse and a jolt that Bard felt move through his entire body.

Afterward Thranduil sat atop him still, panting and smoothing his hair away from his face with shaking hands. There were deep red welts on his wrists where he had wrenched at his bonds—it would be longer sleeves for a few days, then. Bard himself felt little better. He could scarce do more but lie still and watch as Thranduil settled down on top of him, their chests pressed flush together and their breathing evening out. The sweet aftershocks of his finish rolled through him still, like waves of thick honey.

“Any treaty forced under duress is void, you know,” Thranduil whispered in his ear.

Bard chuckled once, which was as much as his body could manage at the time. “I’m sure if you explain the situation, Dain will understand.” He felt Thranduil’s laugh brush against the skin of his neck, and they both fell into a comfortable silence again.

Bard was not fool enough to think that he had won. Thranduil would continue to be as prickly and stubborn as ever when it came to his politics. He was first and foremost a leader, and would fight for his people’s place in the rise of the new North just as violently as—well. Bard would have the bruises tomorrow to show for it. But perhaps in these moments, when there was no more arguing or scheming or even talking, when they simply lay together and let the world drift away from them an dissolve like the foam on a distant wave—perhaps the negotiations could wait. At least until they’d both caught their breaths.


End file.
